


This is how the fall begins

by dogandmonkeyshow



Series: Unforgivable Things [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 05:57:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2457344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogandmonkeyshow/pseuds/dogandmonkeyshow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happened between the gunshot and the good-byes? </p><p>Mycroft gets busy, John gets angry and Mary's cunning comes to the fore. Featuring political manoeuvring, unstable alliances, and Sherlock on the psychiatrist's couch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is how the fall begins

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to the wonderful dolorous_ett for the beta work and polite pointing out of egregious non-Britishisms.

**Thursday, December 25**

Mycroft was silent as the SAS commander secured Sherlock's hands. His brother's expression was resigned, closed, and he refused to meet Mycroft's eye. It wasn't until Sherlock was gone that Mycroft noticed John Watson again. He was jabbering to himself in the doorway to the house. As always, Mycroft thought, talking with nobody listening. He didn't bother trying to discern John's words, barely heard over the slap-slap-slap of the idling rotors nearby.

Mycroft lurched, stiff-kneed and numb, back to the helicopter. Before climbing in, he turned back to watch the SAS crew zip up the body bag. Black-clad men with assault weapons swarmed over the grounds and through the house like an invasion of scarab beetles. In the centre of the well-ordered hive John was shouting in Mycroft's direction, a frantic look on his face. Standing alone in the centre of the action but of no help, accomplishing nothing other than getting in everyone else's way.

Mycroft climbed into the helicopter, secured himself to the seat and silently waved to the pilot to depart.

~ + ~

Elizabeth Smallwood glanced at her phone and knew that the tidings were going to be bad.

Mycroft had warned her the previous week about his suspicions and it appeared that—as always—he had been correct in that regard; the situation with his brother and Magnussen had come to a head at Christmas. She nodded to her daughter and son-in-law and was walking out to the corridor when she took the call.

“Mycroft.”

“Please accept my apologies, Lady Smallwood, for calling at Christmas.”

She closed the door to the library behind her. “Has it happened?”

The pause at the other end told her most of what she needed to know. Then she heard a intake of breath that made her heart sink. “Magnussen is dead.”

She sat down at the foot of the staircase and closed her eyes as she felt relief wash through her, closely followed by anger. The weight she'd been carrying on her shoulders for months slipped into her chest, pressing into her ribs and she felt short of breath.

“Your ladyship, I—” Mycroft began.

“Please excuse me, Mycroft,” she interrupted him as she heard the library door open behind her. Through the spindles of the staircase she watched her grand-daughters shuffle out, on their way to bed and unhappy about it, despite the early morning and hours of yawning. They said their goodnights, each receiving a kiss and a hug, then continued up the stairs. Once Elizabeth heard the door of the guest bedroom close behind them, she took the phone from where it was pressed against her sweater.

“I cannot apologize enough—” Mycroft began again, with his usual uncanny sense of when someone else was paying attention to him, even when unseen.

“Please stop apologizing.” She silently reprimanded herself for letting her irritation show, but he ordinarily had more sense than to be overly obsequious to her. He must be at the end of his tether.

“Was it—?” Not even her upbringing and career had provided her with the words she needed. Then she remembered that Mycroft was one of the few people she knew who never needed a blow cushioned. “Did he do it?”

There was another pause at the other end of the call and Elizabeth's heart broke a little into that void.

“Yes.”

 _Oh, my dear Mycroft, you poor, poor boy_ , were the words that came to her mind. Words he wouldn't want, nor the sentiments behind them.

“Is he in custody?”

Another pause, this one more ominous in her mind. “Yes.”

Neither of them spoke for a few moments. Elizabeth heard a helicopter in the distance and guessed that either he was still in the field or had just been dropped back in London. Not for the first time, she thought that the man's dedication to duty was going to be the end of him emotionally, as well as physically. “I'll come in to London tomorrow.”

“That's entirely unnecessary.”

“Stop arguing, Mycroft.” She began calculating in her mind, while amusing herself with the affronted look she imagined on his face at that moment. “Let's meet at six.”

“Yes, ma'am.” 

She assured herself that his tones were chastened, not disheartened, for she couldn't bear that. “Mycroft.”

“Yes.”

Again, the proper, politic words that were her hallmark wouldn't come and she allowed weariness to push her into the improper and the impolitic. “We will do—everything. Everything possible.”

She imagined he sounded a little strained, perhaps almost bordering on emotional, despite the fact that was unthinkable for Mycroft Holmes. “Thank you, ma'am. I—thank you. At six then.” He rang off and she was glad he'd done so before she'd managed to discomfit him even more than she had.

Elizabeth sighed and allowed her burdens to press her down, elbows on knees, chin perched on folded hands. The worst week of her life had just slid a lot further downhill, and she wasn't sure she had the strength to make it stop before they all drowned in the cesspit waiting for them at the bottom.

~ + ~

**Friday, December 26**

The moment the men walked through the door, John knew they weren’t police. The men set off his soldier’s Intelligence radar, but John sensed they were quite unlike the Intelligence he’d encountered in the army. Posh accents, bespoke suits, and the blasé politeness that told of the most expensive education daddy could buy. Mycroft’s men meant Mycroft pulling the strings behind the scenes and John allowed himself to relax for the first time since they’d left Sherlock’s parents’ house. If Mycroft was calling the shots, there was at least a chance John might make it home soon to see whether or not Wiggins had poisoned his wife and unborn child.

As soon as the questioning started, though, John knew something was off. Some time during the second hour, John realised the cavalry wasn’t coming. In the third hour the questions turned away from the events at Appledore and John understood that the real interrogation had just begun. The two unfailingly polite men sitting across the table from John starting asking questions about Mycroft, and John became very afraid.

~ + ~

After showering and dressing, Mycroft checked his phone. Two messages from Lady Smallwood, three messages from Andrea (likely about the messages from Lady Smallwood), four from Mary Watson, and two from Lestrade. He still had a headache from Wiggins' demonic concoction and the thought of having to deal with Mary Watson made it worse. As he watched the screen, another text message from her appeared. He deleted them all; someone else could deal with that aspect of the situation.

While he keyed up the first message from Andrea, he strode into the small office at the back of his apartment. His assumptions about the messages had been correct. Andrea's latter two had been summaries/warnings of Lady Smallwood's messages. The first had been a warning that Mary Watson had been taken into custody for questioning regarding the previous night's events. Based on the (still increasing) number of messages from the woman, she'd obviously been released. Mycroft couldn't help a faint susurration of anxiety regarding the woman's questioning. Unfortunately he wouldn't have the time to make any inquiries about it until he had at least made initial inroads into addressing the Sherlock situation. 

He turned on the television and watched the morning's news headlines. It was not surprising to see Magnussen's death prominent everywhere. Even if they hadn't been in the slow news days of Christmas week, the death of the most powerful media magnate in the world would have been the leading story of the day, short of a death in the royal family. Or the Beckhams divorcing, he imagined with a frown.

The death was being reported as a suspected aneurism; apparently the Home Office had been uncharacteristically efficient at ensuring this disinformation filtered through the Met to the Gloucestershire Constabulary to Magnussen's lawyers and then to the press. One less thing to worry about until the lawyers began to clamour for the body (if they ever did). At least the man hadn't bothered to have a family; that would have made things awkward. It was unlikely that Miss Hooper would be able to pull a fresh, suitable double out of her vault for that caper. He sent Andrea a note asking her to determine who was the man's next of kin and to ensure release of the body was delayed for as long as necessary.

As usual, the encomiums for one of the most loathed men on the planet were fulsome. Mycroft switched to the BBC, where the approach to the story was at least moderately balanced if no less vacuous. He nodded as he trawled through the channels, gauging the tone of coverage. Varying degrees of fawning, a few passing hints of past scandals and general distaste, but overall a satisfactory absence of any real information getting out to the public. Not that the absence of information in the media reports so far meant much other than that there'd been no leaks to the press yet.

Mycroft looked at his watch. It was just coming up to 2:00 a.m. in Washington and he imagined that both the fact and the true cause of Magnussen's death (though hopefully not the person responsible) were already known there. The murders of prominent naturalised American citizens overseas were still taken fairly seriously in Washington, so Mycroft had a fair idea of what the response of the Americans would be: demands for immediate arrest and extradition. 

The number of senators and congressmen who would be rejoicing over their morning coffee in a few hours would be at least balanced by the numbers who would be secretly afraid of the loss of support of his newspapers and television network, gained as payment in the man's obsessive acquisition of information. The political universe was out of balance with one of its principal players suddenly taken out of the game, and Mycroft knew there were at least a dozen players, large and small, who would be manoeuvring to colonise some of the territory that Magnussen had held. Whether or not the politicians in Britain and America had the stomach to prevent another Magnussen from rising out of the muck of the press was not a subject he had much time to speculate on at the moment, but if he'd been a gambling man he'd have placed a tenner on _No_.

~ + ~ 

After his interrogation, John was escorted back to his cell, where a perfectly adequate-looking lunch was waiting for him on a tray. He stared at the sandwich and soup as he perched on the edge of the bed. Eating was out of the question. His stomach roiled with nerves and anticipation; he hadn't felt this particular heady blend of adrenaline, anxiety, and anticipation since his first field mission in Afghanistan. That time as well, the sensation was almost like motion sickness, as his mind tried to race off in two directions simultaneously: worrying about Mary and the baby and what might have happened to them (Was she in another cell in this building? Did she know what had happened?), and worrying about Sherlock and the implications for them all of some of the questions John had been asked that morning. 

Strangely enough, Sherlock's situation worried him more than Mary's. If there was anyone able to take care of themselves in a crisis, it was his wife. And he knew Sherlock would never have knowingly endangered Mary or the baby and John knew he just had to have faith that Sherlock and Wiggins had known what they were doing. 

Sherlock, though, would be raging, blabbing anything and everything, his fury and paranoia making him even less likely than usual to know when to keep his mouth shut or judge the subtleties of any situation. John resisted the urge to clutch his head in his hands. Anything Sherlock said would just dig him deeper and deeper into trouble, with the added joy of alienating his interrogators with his deductions about their eating, sleeping and recreational habits that Sherlock wouldn't be able to prevent himself from sharing with an even larger serving of his usual bile.

John wondered what, if anything, Mycroft was doing to get them out of this mess.

John wondered if even Mycroft would be able to get them out of this mess.

Then John wondered if Mycroft would choose retaining his position of incredible, if unofficial, power over doing what might be necessary to get them out of this mess.

John eventually realised that thinking about the situation in those terms, in his current state, was a recipe for another Holmes-induced ulcer. So he stopped chasing mental rabbits down mental rabbit holes and lay back on the bed, his hands folded behind his head, and stared at the ceiling while the people with the power to do things did what they thought they needed to do.

~ + ~

John was surprised when they came for him again that afternoon. His stomach told him it was probably coming up to dinner time, but it was impossible to tell with any accuracy what time it was. 

After an insultingly perfunctory debriefing, signing some paperwork which he didn't bother reading in which he promised to never mention any of the events of the last thirty hours to anyone ever, cross-his-heart-and-hope-to-die, he was escorted through what felt like about three miles of identical twisting and turning corridors and into an enormous and almost entirely empty parking garage. His two silent, slab-sized escorts gently bundled him into the back of a conspicuously black van with black tinted windows that John couldn't see out of. More out of a desire to keep himself occupied than by any real hope of gathering any useful data, he tried to discern and memorize their route, so that he could reverse it in his mind and try to determine where they'd kept him. Assuming they weren't planning on taking out into a forest somewhere to dump him into a shallow trench with three precisely placed bullets in the back of his head.

Sherlock, of course, would have been able to determine their location to within a two-block radius from the smell of the fish and chip shop they passed about five minutes into their journey, or from the specific accents of the people walking by as the van idled in traffic. John tried to engage his long-dormant field training on what to do if captured by the Taliban. He let a short laugh escape as he imagined the Major's expression if he ever found out that the only time John had used his training was against his own government.

After what felt to be about twenty-five minutes, the van came to a stop. Before John knew it, doors were opened to the deep dusk of a London winter afternoon and his escorts were beckoning him out of the van. One of the slabs handed him his phone, watch, wallet and keys and leapt back into the van with surprising agility for a man of his size, then they were speeding off down John's street, back to he knew not where. 

John blinked up at his house. It was impossible to believe it had been less than thirty-six hours since he and Mary had left it for the Holmes'. He glanced up and down the street; their car was nowhere in sight. With a roll of his shoulders, he charged up the path and up the stairs to their flat. Mary wasn't there. For a moment, he thought she might be in custody, then dismissed the idea outright. Even if they (whoever 'they' were) had taken her from the Homes' for questioning, they certainly would have released her long before they were finished with John. Unless, of course, they had found out who she really was. He refused to countenance the notion of losing both Sherlock and Mary in the same day.

John turned his phone back on. To his immense relief, there were three messages from Mary. He opened the most recent text: she was staying at her friend Cath's and he was to call her when he got home so that she could join him.

When Mary picked up, he was giddy with relief.

“My god, John, where are you? What happened?” She sounded as frantic as he felt.

“At home. They just dropped me off a minute ago.”

She didn't bother asking who 'they' were. “Cath can bring me home right away.” John heard Cath's voice in the background, but couldn't make out her words. 

“How are you?” 

“I'm fine. We're both fine. Everything's fine. Tired. I'll see you soon.”

John had a sudden thought. “No, wait. I've got something I need to do first. I'll call you when I'm on my way home.”

There was a pause at the other end. “Okay. I'll see you when you get back.”

With her training, Mary probably had figured out exactly what it was he was going to do, and knew not to ask over the phone because there was no way their conversation wasn't being monitored. John wondered if Molly would let him x-ray his phone at Bart's, like Sherlock had. Not that he would recognise any new components that might have been added. But then, based on what he'd heard in the news in the last year, 'they' wouldn't need to add anything to the phone; they could just tap in through his mobile provider, like they did with suspected terrorists. John felt his heart sink; they were in the same league as suspected terrorists now and the soldier in him felt physically ill at the idea that anyone would think of him and Mary that way.

“Take care. I'll try to be quick.” After signing off he immediately pulled up a number that he never used. He wasn't sure whether or not he was surprised when Mycroft answered right away.

“Yes, John.” The man sounded as though he was already bored with the idea of speaking to him, even before he'd opened his mouth.

“I need to see you.”

“I'm afraid that's not possible. I'm terribly busy at the moment. Good-bye.” The phone clicked off at the other end before John got another word out.

“Fuck you, Mycroft,” John muttered under his breath as he selected the number again. As he was selecting the number for his fifth attempt to get through to the man again, there was a quiet knock at the door. A glance through the peephole revealed Mycroft's PA. When John wrenched open the door, she didn't bother looking up from her phone; she just turned on a heel and drifted back down the stairs, expecting John to follow. With a scowl, he grabbed his coat, and did as he was silently bid.

By the time Anthea (or whatever her name was–after four years John still didn't know) dropped him off at Mycroft's office in the dungeons of the Diogenes Club, he had managed to work himself up into a lather. He'd spent most of the trip calling and texting Sherlock's number. One part of his mind berated him in familiar, scathing tones for his complete inability to follow basic logic and for his sentimental hopes. The other part of his mind was a pleading child, praying for news, any news, about Sherlock. The PA, as usual, met his questions with a familiar posh disdain and silence.

John shifted from one foot to another while Mycroft, seated beneath a ridiculous picture of the Queen, ignored him while staring at a computer screen. “Nice Batcave.”

John thought the sarcasm had been pretty obvious, but Mycroft continued to ignore him while typing furiously for a few seconds. “You brought me here, Mycroft.” He paused and swallowed the anger rising up in his throat, threatening to choke him. “What the hell is going on? Where is Sherlock?”

“You brought a gun into my parents' home. On Christmas Day.” Mycroft glanced at him out of the corner of his eye before returning his attention to the obviously fascinating events unfolding on his laptop.

It wasn't a question, but John knew he needed to answer it. “Sherlock asked me to. Where is he?”

Mycroft looked up from his laptop and closed it before settling back in his chair. “Sherlock asked you to.” Mycroft's tone was descending to a degree of frigid that John had never heard before. He wondered if this was the voice he used to scold misbehaving interns and secretaries that didn't spell-check their emails before hitting _Send_.

“Well, he suggested. And are you—”

“And you do everything my brother suggests. Regardless of how ludicrous it might be.” Mycroft paused and the mask of fake politeness slipped for a moment. “And precisely what kind of threat did you anticipate facing in my mother's kitchen?”

“I didn't think—”

“No, you didn't, did you Doctor Watson.” John's eyebrows were raised by the _Doctor Watson_. He'd been _John_ to Mycroft for four years. “You never do think. Your most notable characteristic.”

“Now hold on—”

But Mycroft was just getting going, by the sound of it. He stood and stalked around his desk towards John. “You don't think. You don't question. You're just a good little soldier who does what he's told. And you wonder why a flagrant narcissist like my brother has taken you to his heart. Did it never occur to you that obediently following the “suggestions” of a known drug addict, known at that time to be actively using both cocaine and heroin, might not be the best course of action?”

“I never—”

“No, you _never_ , do you?” Mycroft's tone had descended to a vituperative acidity that was a revelation to John, who was more accustomed to the pique and frustration that characterised the man's interactions with Sherlock. He expected little smoking acid burn holes to appear in Mycroft's tie. “You never think, you never act, you never do anything of any value whatsoever!”

John stepped back as Mycroft took two long strides towards him. For a shocked moment, John thought the man was going to hit him. Not that he was afraid of a desk-bound middle-aged civil servant, but for a second Mycroft looked like he was coming unhinged and he had a good three inches of reach on John.

Mycroft stepped back to his desk and visibly fought to get a hold on himself. John pointed at one of the chairs in front of the desk. “May I?”

“No.”

“Okay. Mycroft, where the hell is Sherlock? What is going on?” The tension in the room was painful as Mycroft's blue eyes seemed to be trying to bore holes straight into the core of John's brain. The tension snapped with a knock at the door and Mycroft's PA entered the room carrying a small stack of files.

Mycroft stared at the files sitting on the corner of his desk for a few seconds. “Go home, John,” he said, his voice tired and to John, almost sad. He shook his head. “Not until you tell me where Sherlock is.”

“I don't know.”

“What?” _I don't know_ were words that never, ever passed the lips of a Holmes. “You're the bloody British government. How could you not know?”

There was a short, sharp exhalation from Mycroft that John interpreted as sarcastic amusement. “You need to stop believing everything my brother tells you. Surely yesterday's events have finally proved that to you.”

“What are you going to do? You have to help him, get him released.”

“Did Sherlock pull the trigger? Did he not obviously plan this before you left London?” Mycroft's tone was descending into the Arctic again and John realised that Mycroft had no intention of doing anything to help Sherlock. “My brother is a murderer, John. Why should he be spared the consequences of his actions?”

John rubbed his forehead, not wanting to be defeated by the man's logic. “He was—he was trying to help. Us. Me and Mary.”

“I know exactly what my brother was doing. And any benefit to you and your wife were entirely coincidental.”

“What does that mean?”

“Go home, John. See to your wife.” 

“I—” John sighed. He knew he was beaten. He knew there was no way he could make Mycroft tell him anything the man didn't want to. And he knew that if Mycroft was telling the truth—that he really didn't know where Sherlock was—then they were all in a lot more trouble than John could imagine.

Mycroft didn't look up as John walked to the door. “I'm sure you've been informed of the consequences of discussing last night's events with anyone not directly involved.”

“Yeah, pretty much. Your friends were a bit cryptic, but I got the message.”

At that, Mycroft looked up and John's inner doctor noted for the first time the bloodshot eyes and dark circles. He resisted his instinctive surge of concern. After all, this was Mycroft Holmes, bastard extraordinaire. “There are more sides in this game than you know, John. It doesn't pay to make assumptions. Now go. Please give my regards to your wife and pass along my apologies that I wasn't able to reply to her messages this morning.” It was obvious to John that ordinary service had been restored in Mycroft-land and John didn't know which he found most disturbing: the speed at which Mycroft seemed to lose his usual iron grip on himself, or how quickly he got it back.

“Yeah. Okay. Do you really expect me to believe you don't know where Sherlock is?”

“My car will take you home. You can wait in the vestibule upstairs.”

“Mycroft, are you okay?”

The man gave him a stony look in reply. “Not a word to anyone, John. Not even Mary.”

“I can't not tell my wife.”

“Yes you can. And you will.”

“Mycroft—”

“Do not under any circumstances discuss these matters outside this office.”

 _Ah. Great._ While it was nice finally to be right about something in the middle of this mess, the confirmation of his suspicions was disheartening. “Okay. Fine. Don't tell me anything, then.”

Mycroft turned back to his files and instantly it was as if John wasn't there. “Mycroft—oh for christ's sake.” John stomped out the door, slamming it behind him. It didn't make him feel one whit better.

~ + ~

In the car on the way to Lady Smallwood's office, Mycroft began to prepare himself. He closed his eyes and forced his shoulders to relax. 

It was essential that he not show any fear. He must appear to be his usual self: calm, collected, incisive, merciless. Any hint of desperation, of clutching at straws, would be the end of him. Sherlock's life depended on his ability to convince Lady Smallwood that he was willing to throw his brother to the dogs, while at the same time subtly reminding her that it was her ludicrous idea of using Sherlock as her agent in negotiations with Magnussen that had brought them together in the first place. She owed him, and she owed his brother, and Mycroft had every intention of ensuring she paid them in full. For an otherwise intelligent woman, Elizabeth Smallwood occasionally indulged her ego and pride with the most ridiculous, overwrought and impractical plans imaginable. She was an idealist, and in Mycroft's copious experience idealists never accomplished anything other than to create messes they then blithely abandoned for others to clear up, whilst simultaneously congratulating themselves on their supposedly high-minded moral stances.

Mycroft took a deep breath to calm himself and focus on the meeting to come. When the car stopped, his usual demeanour of quiet confidence was back. 

The meeting was to be intimate, confidential and entirely off the record. While Mycroft didn't know whether or not Edwin Blythe has been invited, he would have been surprised if Lady Smallwood's MI5 liaison wasn't in attendance. Blythe was a walking complication that Mycroft never looked forward to working around. A persistent thorn in Mycroft's side, the man had been poking and prodding around the edges of Mycroft's administrative armaments for years, trying to find a crack in which to wedge his shiv.

When he arrived at Lady Smallwood's office, Mycroft was surprised that they were alone. It was the first bit of good fortune he'd had since Christmas Eve, and an important one. He waited until invited to take a seat, listening to the eerie quiet in the department, almost all the surrounding cubicles and offices empty.

While she had made her usual efforts, Mycroft could tell at a glance that Elizabeth Smallwood was not well; she appeared to have aged a decade in the week since he'd last been in this office. He hated that they were going through this so soon after her husband's death, but she had made the offer and Mycroft was not a man to disdain a helping hand when in need.

~ + ~

Halfway home, John's phone pinged. It was a message from Mary: _meet me at hyde park corner_. He stared at it, perplexed. He had no idea what she was about, but he knew that with her experience and training he was best served following her lead on pretty much everything for the foreseeable future.

“Can you take me back into town?”

Anthea paused in her typing for a moment. “Yeah.” A moment after she resumed, the car turned back towards the West End. 

John thought about asking her to drop him somewhere else and that he would make his way to meet Mary on foot. Then he realised that no matter what he did it wouldn't matter as it was likely he was being followed. It wouldn't make an iota of difference if Anthea and the rest of Mycroft's minions and the minions of his even more shadowy enemies knew where he was meeting his wife.

After the black car drove away, Mary stepped out from behind a chestnut tree and hurried over as fast as her enormous stomach allowed. John curled around it to hold her as tightly as he could for a minute or two. 

When they pulled apart, she grabbed his hand and headed into the centre of the park.

“Where are we going?” John asked. The last thing he wanted was to end up into the middle of a boisterous crowd; he wanted to go home. 

“I thought it's be nice to do something Christmassy, seeing as we didn't get much of one.” The false cheeriness in her voice set off alarm bells in John's head.

“Okay. Yeah, sure. Whatever you want.” They didn't speak as they wound their way through the crowd, made up almost entirely of families. For a moment John thought the shrieking children would do his head in, then he realised what Mary was up to. The noise all around them would make it difficult for anyone to overhear their conversation. Their house was almost certainly well bugged by now, and they desperately needed to talk.

Mary turned to him, a wide grin on her face. “Do you know how to ice skate?”

He stopped walking and stared at her. “Ice skating? You're joking, right?”

She grabbed his arm and made as if to drag him towards the brightly-lit rink. “Come on. I haven't skated in years. It'll be fun.”

“Fun, yeah.”

Fifteen minutes later, Mary was dragging him around the ice, a gleeful grin on her face. As John glared up at her from the ice for the third time, he thought the grin could possibly be genuine and gave up resisting her efforts. Mary skated away backwards, looking entirely in her element and John allowed himself a moment to speculate on her unknowable childhood, where ice skating had obviously been a regular pastime.

She skated a circle around him, laughing. “You have to get up yourself, you know. I can't help or I'll fall over on the baby.”

He grimaced as he rolled over onto his hands and knees. “Convenient,” he muttered as he swayed up onto his feet and windmilled his arms, to Mary's increasing laughter. She returned and he grabbed her arm, pulling her close in what he hoped would appear to any observer as a desperate attempt to not fall again. He leant over as he clutched her arm. “I spoke to Mycroft,” he whispered as quietly as he could as she attempted to drag him along the ice. “He says he doesn't know where Sherlock is, but I think he's full of shit.” He paused to lurch over to his left and let Mary's arm go before he took her down with him.

“You're not even trying,” Mary teased as she watched him clamber back up onto his skates.

He brushed ice shavings off his arse while trying to not lose his balance again. “That really does hurt, you know.”

“Oh, poor you.” She skated over and stuck her hands in the pockets of his jacket, the closest she could get to putting her arms around him. She leant over as if she was going to kiss him. “He's probably in trouble,” she whispered. “If he really doesn't know where Sherlock is, that means he's being undermined.”

“And then we're fucked,” John whispered as he leant in to kiss her.

As he pulled away Mary whispered, “None of this would have happened if you'd just left that gun at home.”

He glared at her, then turned to make a shaking push off one skate.

“Keep your knees bent a little,” Mary called after him, then skated up behind him and took his arm. 

He gratefully leant into her, even though he was feeling a little more secure. “Don't you start. Mycroft was bad enough, thank you very much.”

“Yeah, well maybe he was right. You know Sherlock hasn't been right since he was shot.” She pulled away from him with a smile and skated backwards, facing him and holding his hands in hers. “That's it. Push off the inside of the balls of your feet, outward and back.”

After a minute or so, she stopped and he gently glided into her, bouncing off her stomach and they laughed. “'Since he was shot.' Oh, that's nice. Nice denial there; well done. You—” He shut up as her laughter cut off. _Right. Unsolved crime still on the books. Shut up Watson, you twit._

“God, my ankles are sore,” he said as a young couple stumbled past, paying more attention to Mary and John than to what their feet were doing. As John watched, the man glanced over his shoulder at them and John felt his insides go as cold as his arse.

“I think I've had enough,” Mary said as she wrapped an arm around John's shoulders and began to pull him a to the benches along the edge of the ice. She leant in as if she were sharing an intimacy. “Christmas, John. At Sherlock's parents' house. Why would you think you'd need a gun?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I don't know.” He turned to look at her with a probably obviously fake smile on his face. “I—I just don't know.” As they neared the edge of the ice, the reality of it all crashed down on him. Sherlock had suggested something idiotic and dangerous and he'd followed like a lovesick puppy. What did that say about him? He shook that pathway out of his head. Magnussen had deserved to die. Sherlock had only done what needed doing and John wasn't ashamed that he had made it possible.

“How did he get it so wrong?” John could barely hear Mary's whisper.

“I don't know.” John had never known Sherlock to be so _wrong_ about anything. The knowledge that his friend's analysis could be so mistaken rattled him. He knew not to expect Sherlock to get human things right, but this was a failure of basic data collection and after a day of wondering, John still didn't know what to make of it. He stopped them next to a group of rowdy and probably quite drunk young men. “Know what he said?”

“Who?

“Ma— the deceased. He said the mistake that was going to destroy all our lives.” He looked around them again and saw no one obviously listening or watching them, though he realised that probably meant nothing. “He knew what Sherlock thought. He knew—he knew exactly what was going to happen, right up to the end. Christ.” He ran his hands through his hair, scratching his scalp as if that would somehow stimulate the brains underneath. 

“Everything changes now.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“What's our friend in the government going to do?”

“No idea. He wouldn't tell me a thing.”

“He's probably—” She trailed off, looking out across the rink at nothing in particular.

John watched her thinking and wondered about the future. For a few minutes in the Holmes' lounge, John's life finally had seemed to be where he wanted it. The problems of the past had been put behind them; he and Mary had resolved their differences. And in a couple of hours it had all gone to shit. He knew he should be angry at Sherlock. That Sherlock had condemned them all to an uncertain and dangerous future, and that there was no way Mycroft or Greg were pulling them out of this fire. But he couldn't. He couldn't blame Sherlock. How could he? Everything he'd done had been to protect Mary, and John knew that if he'd known what Sherlock had known, he'd have done exactly the same thing.

John stood and stretched his arms over his head. His spine felt like a collection of mis-aligned Lego bricks after twenty-four hours of sitting around and half an hour of repeatedly falling on his arse. But he didn't dare relax. He knew they'd be watched every second. His former captors would be watching and listening everywhere they went. He realised that he and Mary would never have a moment of privacy, possibly ever again. And Mary realised that, too; he could tell from the thoughtful and resolute expression on her face. 

He held out a hand to her. “Come on, then. I'm knackered. And my arse is probably black and blue by now. Let's go get some dinner. We can work on it in the morning.”

They skated around the crowd of drunks and stumbled off the ice. “We should come back tomorrow. I wonder how long they've got it going.” Mary glanced around until she saw a sign. “It's on until the third. We should come every night.”

John had to admire the fake enthusiasm she was selling. It was an exceptional performance, though he didn't think it would fool anyone who might be listening in. He rubbed his backside with what he hoped was a comical air and put on his best long-suffering-husband voice. “Whatever you want. Just make sure you're careful; wouldn't want the baby being born on an ice floe.”

She wrapped an arm around his shoulders and hugged him “Oh, John. Everything'll be all right in the end.”

He knew she didn't believe it; but he could hope.

~ + ~

**Saturday, December 27**

Sherlock was ushered into a small, sterile looking room with no windows and harsh, white industrial overhead lighting. It was an interrogation room, and made no apologies about it. The only furniture was a small table and two reasonably comfortable looking chairs, one of which was occupied by a small woman with short-cropped grey hair and dark, deep set eyes. She looked to be about sixty. Knowing the drill, Sherlock sat in the other chair and gestured at the cigarettes on the table. “May I?”

“I'll join you.” She pulled out a cigarette and handed him the pack and the lighter when she was finished with them.

They each took a drag in silence while assessing each other. 

_Wedding ring at least fifteen years old. Abrasions and traces of dirt around the nails. Rough, but not chewed. Nicotine stains, scrubbed diligently but not entirely removed._ “Does your wife mind that you smoke?”

The woman was entirely unfazed by his deduction. “She finds it absurd that I’m a doctor and still smoke, and I think she’d prefer that I didn’t. But I don’t think she minds as long as I keep it out of the house.”

Whoever she was, Sherlock was willing to bet a lot that she wasn't a goldfish. “You smoke while you garden.”

“What have they told you?”

“They haven't told me anything. Not a word. Nada. Nyet. Rien.”

She gave a small sigh. “Of course. My name is Deborah Oppenheimer. You may refer to me as Doctor Oppenheimer. I'm going to be interviewing you as part of a psychiatric assessment that will—among other factors—help determine what's going to happen to you.”

“I'm not to be tried?”

“Oh, you'll be tried. But not in the way I think you mean.”

“So no courtroom melodrama.”

She smiled. “No. Very little melodrama will be involved. Sorry.”

“Damn. I've always been fond of a good courtroom scene.”

She gave a sharp tilt of her head that made him think of a small, watchful bird. “So I've heard.”

The psychiatric assessment part of the proceedings was a surprise, though he'd always assumed there would be some sort of wrangling going on between Lady Smallwood, Mycroft and other dull MI-somethings upstairs over what his fate would be. Trust Mycroft to turn it into the most boring, pedantic, bureaucratic process known to mankind. There would be reports and memoranda and Steering Committees and committees to plan the meetings of the Steering Committees and cross-departmental working groups, all to determine the fate of one junkie detective who'd gone off the rails. “Glad to see my taxes put to such good use.”

She smiled again. “Do you have any questions?”

“Oh, loads. But please, go on.”

Her smile faded into what Sherlock interpreted as a mask of professional “concern” designed to hide emotion of all kinds. “Why did you shoot Charles Augustus Magnussen?”

“Oh, good, we're disposing with the usual 'getting to know you' stage.” He took a drag from his cigarette. “Because he needed to be shot.”

“Why did he need to be shot?”

“Because he wasn't a very nice man.”

“I'm not very nice. Are you planning to blow my brains out, too?”

He couldn't help himself; he laughed.

“You find the prospect of shooting me amusing?”

“No, not really. You're attempting to disarm me with candour, in an effort to establish a 'trust relationship'. A bit, I don't know, Broadchurch, isn't it?”

“You watch detective programs?” She sounded genuinely astonished at the idea.

“Of course not.”

“Then how do you know how characters on detective shows operate?”

“Aren't we straying from the matter in hand?”

“Is there a particular matter in hand?”

“Of course. Why I shot Magnussen.”

“I thought we'd established why you shot Magnussen: he wasn't a very nice man.”

Sherlock took another drag from his cigarette and felt the lovely poisons awaken his brain cells, one by one by one. “Do you profile all the lunatic murderers in this building?”

“Heavens no. There's only so many hours in the day and only one of me.”

“Like me.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“You're a singular entity. Like me.”

“You're hardly singular, Mr Holmes.”

“You don't think so?”

“No, I know so. My circle of acquaintance is hardly vast and I know of two people so much like you it makes my heart sink to think of it.”

“Really? Ah, yes, of course. You know Mycroft.”

“I've met your brother in passing a few times over the last twenty years. That hardly qualifies as knowing him.” She paused. “I can't imagine anyone being able to truthfully say they know your brother. He piques my professional curiosity, though,” she mused.

“As a doctor or as a spy?”

“A spy?” She laughed. “What makes you think I'm a spy? You have been watching detective programs. Too many of them, by the sounds of it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her. “Let's dispense with the chit chat, shall we? I have shot someone of interest to the British government, someone who likely controls significant quantities of the senior administration, members of Parliament and probably the Lords, including your employer, the Home Secretary. You've told me I'm not to be tried for this 'crime'.”

“You don't think shooting an unarmed man is a crime?”

“Not in the circumstances, and not this man, no.” 

“Interesting assessment. Superficial, though.”

“Really?”

“You're the great detective. Deduce this: Where are you? More importantly, where aren't you? In whose power are you right now? And by 'whose' I mean an organisation, not a person. This organisation has arranged for me to interview you. Who do you think I am? And what from your circumstances do you deduce me to be, beyond the psychiatrist currently interviewing you, that is.” 

She looked to be about to continue and he was tired of listening, so he galloped on over her. “Of course the security services are interested in what happens to me. After all, the government can't let people just wander around shooting people they don't like. But they don't dare put me in front of a jury of my 'peers'; after all, my brother, John Watson, and about forty snipers watched me shoot Magnussen. I'd be convicted before the tea interval. And if that happened, the powers that be would have no choice but to toss me in the hole and throw away the key. Do you really think the police services of this country want me in close proximity to the criminal classes? Teaching them everything I know? How do you think I'd keep myself occupied for the next twenty-five years? Needlework? 

“And of course I still have to be Made An Example Of. Also, someone, possibly a large number of someones are going to take this opportunity to bring my brother down a peg or two, which between you and me would do him a world of good. Your ultimate employer, the Home Secretary, owes me at least a few dozen favours out of this little escapade and various other cases I've solved that make her precious incompetent Met look like they're of some actual use, but I can't be seen to be getting off scot free, no, I have to be punished in some sort of way, up to and including assassination. Don't worry, the prospect of being chased through the streets of London by your chums does not fill me with dread, considering these very same people were recently entirely out-manoeuvred by a dominatrix armed only with a smartphone; I should have no problem living a long and enjoyable life under their threat.” Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin and smiled at Oppenheimer. She stared back, eyes a little glazed. 

“Missing a few key elements, but that's to be expected, considering no one seems to have the whole view of this little mess you've created for us other than, perhaps, your brother. And while much of your little rant was close to accurate, the holes in your analysis tell me you have little understanding of the repercussions of your actions.”

“I have no interest in politics.”

“Well, you've ensured that politics has developed a considerable interest in you.”

~ + ~

**Sunday, December 28**

Shortly after lunch, Sherlock was escorted back to the tiny, miserable room. Oppenheimer was already there, again. She lit a cigarette, then pushed the pack and lighter across the table as he sat.

“How's my favourite vigilante today?”

“All the better for seeing you, Doctor. Back for another round?”

“I can't stay away. You've won me over with your graciousness and wit.”

They both chuckled at that and Sherlock reminded himself that he was most definitely Not Charmed by her.

“Is your wife upset that I'm taking up your entire weekend?”

“Not likely. She's glad to have me out from under foot so that she can de-Christmas the house. I think she's taking down the tree as we speak.”

“Ah, another hater of Christmas. Intelligent woman.”

“Despite the evidence of her choice of partner, I'd have to agree.”

Sherlock took another drag. “You're Jewish. What are you doing celebrating Christmas, especially if your wife loathes it.”

“I come from a long line of atheists on both sides. So other than the name, there's not really any Jew left in here.” She pointed at herself with her cigarette. “Was your family religious?”

“God, no. My mother was a mathematician.”

“There's plenty of religious mathematicians around.”

“Regardless. My mother didn't place any value on convention or other people's opinions of how were were raised. And as she had no faith herself, we were never required to endure church until we were at school. Of course, my father's family are all vicars, back to the dark ages. Except for him, of course.”

“What did he do? For work.”

“He was a botanist. Spent his life communing with trees.”

“There are worse ways to make a living, I suppose.”

“Like psychiatry.”

“At least I don't have to work out in the rain, communing with trees. Or dig ditches. Or try to pound knowledge into the heads of ungrateful brats.”

Sherlock snorted. “Or sell life insurance.”

“My cousin sells life insurance. He's a twat.” She took a drag from her cigarette and tapped the ash onto the floor. “Car park attendant.”

“Not bad.”

“Children's party clown.”

“Ouch. Better.”

“Journalist.”

Sherlock laughed. 

“Consulting detective.”

Sherlock stopped laughing, snapping his jaws shut. “What's wrong with being a detective?”

“I have no idea. What do you do, detective-ing? How about a demonstration?”

“Oh, I see, still trying to establish rapport by luring me into my 'comfort zone.' A bit obvious, isn't it?”

“I'm curious to see the infamous Sherlock Holmes doing what he does best. Indulge me. I'm a big fan.”

His mind stuttered. Cabs. Gunshots. John. Baskerville. Bart's. Moriarty. More gunshots. He realised that for someone who wasn't a policeman, soldier, intelligence agent or American, there was a disproportionate amount of gunfire in his life. He tapped the ash from his cigarette into his coffee cup. “You've read my file.”

“Of course I've read your file. I wouldn't be much of a detective if I didn't examine all the evidence.”

“Detective?” He sneered.

“I'm a psychiatrist. Much the same thing. Except I winkle out the clues in the mind, not dog hair and dandruff and the varying tensile strengths of natural fibres.” She smiled.

He bristled. “Clues in the mind. But not the heart.”

“The heart doesn't tend to come into it much with my patients.”

“And who are your usual patients? Intelligence agents? Soldiers?”

“Broken men. And they are almost always men. Plus some consulting work on the side. Special cases.”

“Like me.”

“Yes, like you, Mr Holmes.”

They each took drags from their cigarettes.

“You used to be an agent, didn't you? That's why you treat agents now.”

“When did I say I treat agents?

“But you do. Is that why you're treating me?”

“You're not an agent, Mr Holmes.”

“That isn't the plan for me?”

“I have no idea what the plan is for you. I doubt there even is one at this point in time. And as I said before: I'm not treating you, I'm assessing.”

“What exactly are you assessing?”

“Your suitability for various roles.”

“And those roles are?”

“Ones that each require a distinct set of skills and temperaments.” She smiled while Sherlock fumed. “I'm not part of the decision-making process other than providing data. Recommendations even are beyond my remit.”

“Sounds dull. Is being an agent really that boring?”

She sighed and looked as though it took every once of energy to not roll her eyes at him. “Yesterday you said you have 'loads' of questions. Are there any I'm likely to be able to answer? If so, now's the time to ask.”

Sherlock scrolled through the list in his head. Some she'd answered already, overtly or unintentionally. Some he knew she'd never answer and most of them, he now knew, she most likely didn't have the answer to.

“Why has my brother not been by to gloat at my fall from grace?”

“I imagine he's been busy, trying to ensure you're not shot at dawn.”

“Could that really happen?”

She nodded, then lit another cigarette. Sherlock contemplated the prospect that he might not come out of this alive; the possibility hadn't occurred to him before. He wasn't sure how he felt about it. He filed the thought away for further examination one he'd been returned to his cell. It would occupy a few of his many empty hours, at least.

“Where is John Watson?”

“I believe he was questioned then released. I imagine he's home with his wife.” 

“Good. He had nothing whatsoever to do with this.”

“Isn't he your best friend? Why are you just asking about him now?”

“Oh, I've asked.”

She shrugged and the two of them smoked in tense silence for a few minutes while Sherlock spun the idea of potential impending death around in his head like pants in a clothes dryer.

“Is there anyone you'd kill for?”

She started out of her reverie. “What do you mean 'kill for'? Kill to have, kill someone else at their request?”

“Kill to protect.”

She paused and thought for a few seconds. “My wife, I suppose. Though she's more than capable of protecting herself.”

“Ah. She's another agent?”

She gave him her amused scowl. “She's a physicist. Of a sort.”

“Aren't psychiatrists supposed not to discuss their personal lives with their patients?”

“You're not my patient. I'm not treating you.”

“Diagnosing, then.”

“Oh, no, not diagnosing. There's no treatment plan to come.”

Sherlock thought that sounded ominous, especially considering their previous subject of conversation. “Then why are we here?”

“I'm more--. How shall I put it? Collecting data that will inform the development of a plan. Call it an asset management plan.”

“And who is to be managing this asset? Please don't tell me my brother. If that's the plan just take me out back and shoot me now.”

She laughed. “Managing assets is so far below his pay grade he can't even see it when he looks down between his feet. You don't really know what he does, do you?”

“Satisfying your professional curiosity?” In reality, Sherlock had little sense of what exactly Mycroft did on a day-to-day basis. Hobnob with the higher orders. Start wars. Topple governments. Light the Queen's cigarettes while prostrate on the Buckingham Palace floor. The details were hazy, though, other than poking his pointy nose in Sherlock's business at every opportunity. For someone supposedly so important, he seemed to have a tremendous amount of time to waste meddling in his younger brother's affairs.

“You'll be handed off to someone, who will be responsible for overseeing your work.”

“Arranging my death if it's unsatisfactory.”

“Something like that, yes.”

Sherlock tried to assure himself she was joking, but didn't have much luck. He took another drag from his cigarette. “How is one a 'sort of' physicist? Ah, you share an employer. Office romance? Meet on the firing range, or over the tea trolley?”

“She teaches and runs a research institute at a Russell Group university. And she used to be a patient.”

“That doesn't preclude her from being an agent. And that's a bit unprofessional, isn't it? Aren't doctors de-listed for sleeping with patients?”

“First I cured her, then I slept with her.”

“How convenient for you. Rebuild a wife to order.”

“I'll be sure to tell her you approve of my methods. She has an odd sense of humour.”

“Is she another one of Mycroft's shadowy minions? A lesbian sort-of physicist sounds like something he'd want for his harem of attendant females.”

She laughed again, long and loud and to Sherlock it seemed genuine. “I believe they knew each other slightly decades ago. Long before I knew her.” She paused and leant back in her chair, lacing her hands across her stomach. “May I ask you a personal question? It's not related to our conversation but something I've been curious about for years and perhaps you can shed some light.”

“Asking me why I shot a man isn't personal?”

“Not in my line of work, no.”

“Ask away.”

“Why does your brother wear a wedding ring if he isn't married?”

Sherlock laughed and choked on his cigarette. “My god, why does Mycroft do anything? And how do you know he’s not married?” She gave him a look that was so reminiscent of Mycroft that he had to laugh again. Out of the twelve-dimensional universe of lies that made up Mycroft's life, the ring was probably the most mundane. One of the many manifestations of his armour collection and, in Sherlock's mind, one of the saddest things about his brother. The physical manifestation of holding the entire universe at arm's length. The repudiation of want, of desire, as a first principle of existence.

Oppenheimer was watching him carefully. “I call it the Golden Shield.”

“You've given a lot of thought to the idiosyncrasies of someone you admit to barely knowing.”

“Occupational hazard. A riddle, wrapped up in an enigma, in a locked box, encased in concrete, and buried at the bottom of the Mariana Trench,” she mused as she toyed with the lighter.

“My brother's heart? Now who's being melodramatic.”

“Oh, I hope not. And yes, melodrama. My apologies. Do you know anything of his friends?”

“We're now gossiping about my brother?”

She shrugged. “It's been a long week.”

“Of course he doesn’t have friends. Mycroft doesn’t do _friends_. He thinks of people like you as goldfish.”

“And he’s never wanted a pet.”

“Mycroft would kill any pet in his care, through either neglect or in a scientific examination of how slowly he could get it to die.”

“Did you never have pets as children?”

“Oh, we've entered the realm of Freud, have we? Let's see: we've covered my brother, we're now moving on to my parents? Am I to be regaled with theories of how I shot Magnussen because my parents are an embarrassment to any sane person?”

She didn’t appear surprised by his course change; she’d either expected it or, more likely, had purposely tried to elicit it. Because, of course, she’d seen his file. Sherlock wondered if by testing his boundaries she was, in fact, testing his ability to detect that she was testing his boundaries. He didn’t know whether to be amused or not. Not that it mattered. She was working for Mycroft in one of the various shadowy organisations his brother controlled, so Sherlock felt no obligation to tell her the truth, or even answer her questions other than for his own amusement.

~ + ~

**Monday, December 29**

_Mary is safe, so John is safe. Mary is safe, so John is safe_. The seven words rolled around in his mind like a chant calculated to transport him to nirvana, the only thing keeping him sane as the boredom and ennui kept him curled up tightly on the narrow bed. The only thing he found successful at driving away the now persistent memory of Mycroft's expression of fear and sadness and anger as the SAS commander had secured Sherlock and taken him away.

_Mary is safe, so John is safe._

By Sherlock's estimates, he'd been locked up for three days in the surprisingly spacious cell. Food, water, and silence were all he'd been provided. No policemen, no meddling Mycroft, no interrogations that he could manipulate in his favour, and no information of any kind other than the highly dubious snippets and allusions let loose by Doctor Deborah. The only reasonable conclusion was that his previous refusal of MI6's kind offer of a slow suicide preceded by a lot of dirt, noise and awful food in eastern Europe was going to be retracted on his behalf. He wondered if it was an improvement over being shot at dawn.

 _Mary is safe, so John is safe. And when the baby comes they will be three again_. That was the only thing that mattered, and Sherlock realised that he was remarkably okay with paying the cost to secure it.

~ + ~

Mycroft watched the glowing face of the clock count up to 5:45, then turned off the alarm. He counted to four before hauling himself to his feet. It was going to be a bear of a day.

His body transported him through the morning as if it were a morning like any other. As he shaved he tried to examine his skin without looking at his face, knowing the hollow-eyed, haunted look he would find there. 

The inexorable force of his habits being what they were, he stepped into his car spot on his usual 7:00 a.m. and settled back to read his overnight emails. Three were from Andrea, the last at 3:47 a.m. All were seemingly innocuous, but displayed her usual rigorous adherence to their personal code: trouble brewing (as if he needed her to tell him that) and incoming storms rapidly approaching shore. Mycroft remembered the tales he would tell Sherlock when they were children of the East Wind, and how it came to destroy the unworthy. Ironic, now.

At 7:02, Andrea’s first message of the day arrived: a request for a meeting at 2:30. Not unexpected. He’d known this day was coming the moment Sherlock mentioned Magnusson’s name at Baker Street in July. By the time his brother had pulled the trigger of John Watson’s illegal pistol, Mycroft had managed to cobble together a reasonably well-engineered series of responses; though the one he would now have to initiate was the one he’d hoped he wouldn't need. Everything would flow from this meeting, and he had to lay the groundwork in such a way that he left his options as flexible as possible, despite his rapidly diminishing authority. 

The advancements in Mycroft’s career had been predicated on his refusal (except when forced to by circumstances outside his control) to go to war without at least three plans for victory and pre-defined peace terms for the vanquished. While today’s meeting wasn’t new tactically, the war had been brought into his keep and Mycroft was unaccustomed to fighting on personal territory. The worst fights were the ones that involved hostages and the upcoming battles were riddled with them.

By the time he reached the office, he’d started to work his way through the emotional minefields that were going to make the next weeks hellish if he couldn’t navigate through them. As he strode through the ranks of his staff, his antennae detected no deviation from the ordinary restrained bustle. The office was quieter than usual, with many of his staff away until after the new year. Other than that, everything was as usual. Andrea brought three files for his immediate attention, which he dispatched as if it was just another Monday morning. 

At 2:15, he stepped into his car and repressed the urge to vomit onto his shoes. Ten minutes later he strode the corridor to the meeting room as if it were any other day, head high and all systems at maximum. 

Just outside the meeting room, Lady Smallwood was speaking with a woman he couldn't immediately identify but who seemed familiar. When Lady Smallwood saw him, she stepped away and made a point to greet him, which was noted by the small group of men on the other side of the glass wall. Behind her, the MI5 contingent waited: Blythe, with his designated toady Pollay, and one of Mycroft’s least favourite Foreign Office stooges, Blenner-Hassett.

“Lady Smallwood. Good afternoon.”

“Mycroft.”

He noted she was not looking any better than she had on Boxing Day. 

“Mr Holmes. Deborah Oppenheimer.” The woman looked up at him with a faint air of ironic detachment and Mycroft remembered her at last. She had what Mycroft assumed was her psychiatrist face and voice on, which likely meant she was feeling out of her depth. 

He took the seat next to Blythe and gave the man a polite greeting, which was returned as expected, the two of them metaphorically loosening the hilts of their swords. 

Sherlock's (and by extension, Mycroft's) life was in the hands of these people, as well as of the invisible others guiding them all, as represented by Lady Smallwood and, Mycroft had to grudgingly admit, Blythe. Mycroft was accustomed to being one of the invisible guiding pairs of hands, not one of the manipulated, and felt a sudden sympathy for the people who were the usual pawns in these games.

By the looks of the others around the table, other than signs of exhaustion, based on appearances they could be attending a quarterly budget variance meeting. _And on such superficial mundanity lives rise and fall._

He felt helpless. He was helpless at this stage of the proceedings. More than twenty years of striving and scheming and bloody hard graft and all of it had come down to this.

When Mycroft spoke it was as if he spoke of a stranger. He showed no mercy and demanded none. He did not stray from the script that he and Lady Smallwood had agreed. The expected performance of Mycroft Holmes, Man of Clockwork Gears. The man with a shard of ice for a heart and mercury flowing in his veins. A man who neither gives nor takes quarter. A man who would throw his own brother under a bus to protect his position and the law.

In the end, it was all over in a few minutes. To his immense relief, it had obviously been decided already; in the absence of wrangling he saw Lady Smallwood's guiding hand. She wanted to ensure Mycroft wasn't put in the position of being tempted to beg for his brother's life. Doing so would have given Blythe unacceptable leverage and wouldn't have been successful in the end, anyway. The substantive negotiations had all occurred that morning, with Lady Smallwood acting as champion of the solution Mycroft had presented to her the evening of Boxing Day, and which all parties today agreed was the best solution: worse than Mycroft had hoped for, but better than he could reasonably have believed acceptable to Blythe. 

All that remained to be decided was the logistics. And to tell Sherlock. Mycroft knew that volunteering for what would be seen to be an odious job would help his cause in the long term, and he wanted no one else to break the news to his brother. The fact that Mycroft could feel Blythe's repressed outrage radiating off the man, practically burning Mycroft's arm and shoulder, meant that the other man knew what the decision meant: that Mycroft was really in control of the decisions that had been made, regardless of the fact he hadn't been at that morning's meeting and that Blythe had failed in his latest attempt to take Mycroft down.

When Lady Smallwood called an end to the meeting shortly thereafter, Mycroft exchanged a look with Blenner-Hassett. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Blythe hadn't missed the look and Mycroft repressed a smile, because of course Blythe noticing the look had been Mycroft's entire reason for exchanging the look in the first place. While he knew his sense of humour was inappropriate at times, sometimes he saw no reason to deny himself.

He made his goodbyes to Lady Smallwood, then exchanged perfunctory farewells with Blythe, Pollay, Blenner-Hassett and Deborah Oppenheimer. 

When he arrived back at his office he did not do what he so desperately wanted. He did not close the door, instruct Andrea to cancel his meetings and hold his calls, and drink himself into a stupor while staring out the window while thinking about his brother for the next twelve hours. Instead, he was a good boy: he returned calls that needed to be returned, answered emails that his assistants were not able to answer, delegated, made (admittedly, likely bad) decisions, and took two meetings that he was later entirely unable to remember. Lady Smallwood did not call. He did not call John or Lestrade. For the rest of the day he pretended that Sherlock didn't exist, as it was the only possible way for him to survive the day without losing his mind.

At 4:15, when Andrea brought tea, she asked, “Was Deborah Oppenheimer at the meeting?” and he wondered why she would even ask about the woman. 

“Yes, she was.” As soon as he was alone again, Mycroft leant back in his chair slowly. He spent a few minutes focusing his unfortunately diminished mental resources on the implications of Deborah Oppenheimer's presence at the meeting and was almost overcome with the urge to laugh. He suppressed it as inappropriate, acknowledging to himself that in his current state of mind he might not be able to stop until he started to weep.

~ + ~

John glanced at the name showing on his phone as it rang for the third time in ten minutes. “Shit.”

“Greg again?” Mary asked as she flipped through the magazine propped on her stomach.

“Yeah.” John sent the call to voice mail.

“You’re going to have to talk to him eventually.”

“I know, I know.” He glanced around the half-empty waiting room. “What do I tell him? I can’t say—“

“Tell him he’s off with Mycroft.” She rummaged through the pile of old Hello magazines on the table next to her.

John’s phone rang again. “Oh, for—Greg, hi.”

“Where are you? Been trying you all day.”

“Yeah, sorry. At the clinic with Mary. They don’t like you to take calls in the exam rooms.” Mary gave him a thumbs-up, which he scowled at.

“Everything okay?’

“Yeah, fine. Ten fingers, ten toes, the usual routine. At her age.” Mary scowled back at him and he smiled. “She’s considered ‘high risk’ so they’re making her come in every two weeks.”

“Great, good. Look, I’ve been trying to get hold of Sherlock, but he’s not answering. Do you know where he is?”

Mary watched John closely. “Last I heard, he was off with his brother. Doing, something, I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

John grimaced. The longer this went on the more likely he was to cock it up. “He was sort of whisked away at Christmas and I haven’t seen him since.”

“He’s working without you? Doesn’t sound like Sherlock.”

“Don’t think he had much choice.”

Mary gave him the ‘cut him off’ gesture and he shrugged.

“If it’s the brother, it’ll be all hush-hush, I suppose.”

“Yeah. I’m not going near anything Mycroft’s involved in if I can help it.”

“No, I wouldn’t either. Tell Sherlock to give me a call when he gets back. Got any idea when that’ll be?”

“None, sorry.”

“Okay.” Greg paused and John almost rang off. “So, how’s Mary?”

“Fine, fine. Everything’s—fine.”

“Okay. Let me know if you need anything. Not that I know anything about, you know.”

“Yeah, okay, thanks. I’ll let him know to call you if I see him.” John rang off, put his phone in his pocket and rubbed his hands over his face. “I hate lying to Greg.”

“You were doing really well there until the end.”

“What do you mean?”

“'If I see him.’ Honestly, John.”

“Yeah, well, sorry for not being a professionally trained liar.” Thankfully, the scanning tech intervened to call them into the exam room before things spiralled into further rancour, though Mary gave him a look that promised _later_.

~ + ~

Greg tucked his phone away and slumped further down into his chair. “He said Sherlock was off with you.”

Mycroft stared back at him and Greg wondered if he'd had any sleep at all since Christmas. “Good.” Mycroft took a sip of tea as he resumed staring into space over Greg's right shoulder.

Greg watched him for a few minutes, until he couldn't stand the misery in the room any longer. “Will I—?”

“No.” Mycroft's eyes snapped into focus on him again. “I'm afraid not.”

“Oh. Okay.” Greg stood. “Well, say good-bye for me, then. And for Molly Hooper, too.”

“Yes, of course.” There was a tiny ripple of misery on Mycroft's face for a moment and Greg wondered how many other people's good-byes Mycroft would be conveying to his brother on Saturday. He wondered if their parents knew what was happening. Probably not. Though Mycroft likely had already prepared his little speech for when he needed to tell them that Sherlock was dead. Really dead, this time. For a moment, Greg wondered if they'd bury him in the grave that already (still) had Sherlock's headstone on it, or would choose another one. That'd stump the historians in the future, that would.

Greg zipped his jacket, keeping his head down to ensure he didn't catch Mycroft's eye. “Well, best be off, then. If there's—”

“Thank you, Detective Inspector. For everything you've done for Sherlock over the years. I—” The man's words seemed to fail him entirely and Greg left without another word, wanting nothing more than to get out of that horrible little room before Mycroft Holmes fell apart in front of him.

~ + ~

**Wednesday, December 31**

Mycroft followed his escort through the long anonymous corridors in the bowels of the equally anonymous building. Inside and out, it gave no evidence of its purpose: no blood, no noise, no stench of fear or pain. Only pale grey, blank walls and stark industrial lighting. They could have been underneath Baskerville for all the sterility and lack of character of the place.

As they strode the corridors, occasionally swiping identification cards to pass through doorways, Mycroft remembered something told to him by a classmate, decades ago. That New Year's Eve was important. That how you spent the turning of the year dictated how you would spend the year to come. That you should always spend it with the people you wanted in your life. That as midnight struck you should always be doing something you loved, that was important to you. Mycroft suppressed a grimace. As they entered another corridor, a second man joined them and Mycroft knew they must be near their destination. 

If Christina was correct, Mycroft faced a year of traipsing through the bowels of MI5 facilities trying to save his brother's life. Ordinarily, the prospect wouldn't have done much for his mood, but under the present circumstances the idea of Sherlock being alive in a year, even locked in a cell, was almost too much to hope for.

When his two escorts halted in front of a nondescript door, identical to the dozens they'd passed, Mycroft stepped back as one of the men entered a security code into the keypad next to the door. He noticed that his escorts noticed his professional courtesy and he was glad to note their approval. He was unsure what, if any, information about his role in this situation had filtered down to the “troops”, but he was well served to behave as if there was nothing at all extraordinary about his brother being incarcerated in an MI5 secure facility, and that that fact had no bearing on Mycroft's status as the shadowy figure of real power in government, a man to be unknown, feared, and given every respect possible. Little gestures of hierarchical graciousness never went amiss, in any case.

When the door opened, Mycroft could see through to a surprisingly spacious cell with a bed, table and chair, and a screened off cubicle he assumed was the toilet facilities. Sherlock was sitting on the bed, back to the wall. He appeared to be off in his mind somewhere; a week in this empty room would have challenged his ability to keep himself occupied in the best of circumstances.

Mycroft was glad they allowed him to enter the room alone. Not that he had any illusions of privacy; they were being recorded, probably in every spectrum known to science.

When the door clicked closed behind him, Sherlock's eyes flashed open. When he saw Mycroft standing in front of him there was no visible reaction, as if he didn't believe what his eyes told him and he didn't want to encourage their twisted sense of humour by acknowledging their little jape.

Mycroft waited, still.

Eventually, Sherlock took in a long breath and unfolded his legs to lay across the bed. “Is it Serbia or Romania?” he said, in a bored monotone.

“Kosovo, I'm afraid,” Mycroft replied, in similar tones. They could be two strangers discussing the weather in a pub.

They sat and stood in silence, avoiding each other's eyes, while Mycroft wondered what to say. That he'd done his best. That a six-month likely fatal mission being his best was embarrassing. That a likely fatal six month mission at least gave the hope of reprieve—after all, six months is an eternity in politics—and likely death in six months was infinitely preferable to a certain death tomorrow. They both knew all those things and if there was anything both brothers hated it was unnecessary chit chat.

Mycroft took the small chair, turned it around to face Sherlock, and sat. He didn't want there to be any words of good-bye. He didn't want to acknowledge that that was what would be happening on Saturday morning. And when the time came, he didn't want Blythe's men recording them. Besides, there were too many things to say, and he had no words at the moment with which to say them. There was only anger and incomprehension and bone-wracking grief, none of which Sherlock would want. Mycroft doubted his brother even felt guilt for murdering Magnussen; why would he want to address Mycroft's feeling on the matter?

“When?”

Mycroft started out of his reverie. “Saturday morning. Two and a half days.”

“It's New Year's Eve.” 

It wasn't a question, but Mycroft nodded anyway. “I'll take you to the air field Saturday morning.”

Sherlock finally glanced over to Mycroft and their eyes met. They both knew the real conversation would come then, if at all. “Pity my Albanian's so rusty.”

Mycroft forced a tiny smile. “I'm sure it will all come back to you when you need it.”

They stared at each other for another minute or so, then Mycroft stood. He replaced the chair at the table and headed for the door. As it opened, he heard a quiet “Thank you,” from behind him. He turned, perplexed. “Doctor Deborah mentioned—”

“Deborah Oppenheimer?”

“Yes. I spoke to her twice.” Sherlock paused, apparently trying to unwind the unmarked days and hours in his mind. “Saturday. And Sunday, I believe. She implied you were trying to—” He waved a nonchalant hand. “Arrange something. I don't know. She was uselessly vague.”

“She's a psychiatrist; that's her job,” Mycroft replied automatically. He suppressed a frown and avoided picking up on what else Sherlock might be alluding to. This information pulled their little ship in an unexpected direction. He shrugged. “I'll see you Saturday, then. Do try to be ready on time. Some of us have better things to do than head off on little overseas jaunts.”

“Don't worry, brother mine. I'll be up with the larks, bright eyed and bushy tailed and ready for my adventure.”

They shared a look and Mycroft allowed Sherlock a hint of a smile, then turned on his heel and marched out the door.

~ + ~

**Friday, January 2**

 

“Sir?”

Mycroft looked up from the report he’d been staring at, unseeing, for the past ten minutes. “Yes.”

Andrea hovered in the doorway of his office, an uncharacteristic hesitancy that set off alarm bells in his head. “We’ve received a rather strange request from the Canadians.”

Mycroft leant back in his chair, flummoxed. The Canadians never made trouble, but trust them to do so when he was least disposed to do anything about it. She continued, “There’s been a request for a meeting with the High Commissioner. They’re insisting it be today.”

He frowned. “Did they give you any reason why?”

“None. But they’re being quite firm on that point. You don’t have anything from two o’clock to four that I can’t move to next week.”

“Yes, thank you. Please inform them I’ll be there at 2:15.”

When Andrea had departed, Mycroft turned his mind to this strange turn of events. The only possible reason for the immediacy was that it had something to do with the Magnussen business. The Canadians had no dog in that fight, but their strange _clientis_ relationship with the Americans sometimes gave them insight into their mutual ‘friends’ that had proven useful in the past. It was obvious that something had arrived in that morning’s diplomatic pouch that was of concern to Mycroft personally and reason pointed to only one matter to which it could relate. 

At thirteen minutes past two, Mycroft strode into Canada House and was met at the security desk by the High Commissioner’s most senior Secretary. Two minutes later he was staring at a small typed note that had been handed to him by the HC himself. The note was unsigned, but Mycroft calculated a 93% probability he knew the identity of the author, based on its style and content and that knowledge disturbed him.

_Our friends have let loose the hounds. First priority rendition. Keep him close to home and good luck._

Mycroft resisted the urge to clutch his head in his hands as his worst fears were realised. Three solid days’ worth of negotiating, wheedling and logistical conniving was out the window. And he had less than a day to reverse all their plans, while giving all appearances to be doing nothing of the sort.

The HC paid an inordinate amount of attention to the cup in his hand as he allowed Mycroft to gather his thoughts. Mycroft schooled his face almost without thinking, and rose to his feet. “Thank you, Commissioner, for bringing this to my attention. And for understanding the time sensitivity.”

“No problem; you’re welcome, of course.” The HC stood and made to escort Mycroft to his outer office. The man pointed to the note still in Mycroft’s hand. “Should I take care of that for you?”

With a start, Mycroft looked down at the note. “No, thank you.” He dropped it into the fireplace on the far side of the office and watched the paper turn to ash. As he took his leave of the man, he thanked him again. 

“Don’t mention it. A favour for an old friend.”

Mycroft’s surprise must have shown on his face. While he’d had a cordial professional relationship with the man since his arrival in London, there was no way anyone would consider them _friends_.

The other man noted his confusion and pointed at the fire.

“Ah, of course.” And Mycroft tucked away this newly acquired piece of an old puzzle for a later date, when he’d have time to examine it in detail.

After exchanging the expected pleasantries, and a quick escort from one of the man’s less senior Secretaries back to the ground floor atrium, Mycroft was in his car and on his way back to his office.

_Eighteen hours._

Mycroft allowed himself the self-indulgence of ninety seconds of gut-wrenching panic. In just under eighteen hours Sherlock would be boarding a plane, to be dropped into Kosovo. And how in heaven’s name was Mycroft to prevent that from happening, in a way that didn’t cost him his career or his life?

And why was he finding this out from Laurence bloody Martin? Certainly one of his long-time CIA associates (Fischer, Jorgenson perhaps?) would have tipped him off that something was coming. But not a whisper of a hint. The panic was replaced by warm, comforting, anger; this was the thanks he received for two decades of assistance, string-pulling and behind the scenes support in Europe for the Americans. What else was going on that he didn’t know about? Was he in danger, as well? He was certainly a more valuable target than Sherlock.

The voice in the back of his mind was having a field day. _This is how the fall begins._

 _You’re no longer invited to the important meetings, the meetings where the decisions actually are made. The people who Chair those meetings no longer return your calls. The people who report to the important people smell the fall on you and no longer defer to you, no longer come to you for advice, no longer play the game of tiny mutual incremental favours hoarded and information traded for future use. Then they snub you—politely, oh yes, everyone is still unfailingly polite—and look on you with pity in the few (unimportant, powerless) committees you’re still allowed to attend. People you've long thought of as allies don't watch your back any more, won't barter information with you any more. Your contacts become stale as people move on and don't take you with them. You’re over. You no longer matter. You’re_ ordinary. 

Mycroft leant back into the leather seat, closed his eyes and concentrated on slowing his racing heartbeat. He’d need two hours’ clearance to be on—well, there was no safe side to anything any more. Six, no, eight hours to implement should be adequate. That gave him eight hours to devise a convincing and untraceable way of ensuring Sherlock didn’t get on that plane the next morning. 

No, Mycroft Holmes wasn’t ordinary. No one was _ever_ going to make him be ordinary. And for all their sakes that was a bloody good thing, too.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is the first in a series that will have four stories in total. The next two stories in the series run in parallel; both start almost immediately after the events of this fic, and can be read in any order or together. 
> 
> The second story posted, _It's Not the Puzzle You Were Expecting_ , is from Sherlock's POV; [it can be read here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5148155). The third story posted, _Some things we do are unforgivable (but must be done all the same)_ covers the same timeline from Mycroft's POV; [it can be read here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6878317#main).


End file.
